by Ruth Reichl
He held an arm out to me. “Shall we? I will be extremely pleased to be the escort of so elegant a creature. You make me feel like a fortunate man. I anticipate a favorable outcome to this day, and I have every expectation that we shall finally find the missing missives from Lulu.”
But what we found, when we got back to the mansion, was a message from Ruby. She wanted me to call her immediately.
“Oh, Billie,” she said, a spark of excitement in her usually placid voice, “Mr. Pickwick just met with his real estate agents, and they’re on their way over. He’s going to sell the mansion!”
I’d been anticipating this moment for the past five months, but, still, it took my breath away. “You okay?” she asked, and I realized I’d been staring mutely at the wall, silently clutching the phone.
“Yeah, fine.” My mind was racing. How much time did we have?
Slightly dazed, I stumbled down to Sammy’s office. “She said they’d be here any minute.”
His face turned ashen. “Their arrival is imminent?” He gave a helpless little gesture, taking in the copper teapot, the rugs, the duck press, and the sword. “How unfortunate that they should catch us unawares. I had anticipated a bit more warning. This affords me a conspicuous lack of time in which to remove my personal effects. What shall we do? It is obvious that I must make myself scarce.”
“Did you keep those ‘unsanitized’ tapes? We’ll put them back up and lock your door. I’ll say I don’t have the key.”
We closed the door and Sammy turned the key, pocketing it as I crisscrossed the door with long strips of the yellow tape. Sammy watched me struggle to make it stick. “I am desolated to abandon you. But I shall scurry off. Do not, under any circumstances, allow those people access to the library. Recall that the key went astray long ago. If fortune favors us, their chosen locksmith will operate with the normal sloth of the New York tradesman. That will buy us a bit of time.”
“Where’re you going?”
“I shall pay a visit to the Fales Library. Despite this regrettable development, I continue to feel fortunate. Fales, as you know, contains America’s largest antique-cookbook collection.”
“NYU? I thought that library at Radcliffe had the great cookbook collection.”
“Old news. Fales has eclipsed Radcliffe, and they specialize in New York City. It seems propitious; perhaps somebody there will have knowledge of Bertie.”
“Propitious!” His vocabulary could still make me laugh.
SAMMY HAD BARELY left the building when the bell rang. A patrician couple strolled into the lobby, gazing appreciatively around. “Joan-Mary “Whitfield,” said the woman, stripping off brown kid gloves and holding out a smooth white hand with beautifully manicured nails. The camel-hair coat slung carelessly across her shoulders echoed the color of her hair, which was blown into a rippling pageboy. She’d tossed a silk scarf artfully around her neck, prominently displaying the “Hermès” written on the colorful horseshoe print. Her boots were made of the softest leather, the kind that melts beneath a single drop of snow. I wondered if she had always been pretty or if she was one of those women who become more attractive in middle age.
“And this”—she indicated the man—“is my colleague Christopher Van Patten.”
“Chris,” he corrected, holding out a hand as beautifully maintained as hers. Tall and well built, he looked accustomed to dominating a room. I noticed him appraising my new clothes, and I thought that Sammy had been right; this man in the custom-made suit was eyeing me with respect. I liked that. His eyes moved past me to rest on the chandelier over the stairway. “This is a great pleasure.” His voice was self-consciously deep, as if he’d worked with a voice coach to get that deep bass sound. “I’ve walked past the Timbers Mansion so often, wondering what it would be like inside.”
Joan-Mary moved farther into the lobby. “Would you be good enough to give us a tour?” In contrast to her partner’s, her voice was small and whispery.
“Don’t you want to wait for Mitch?”
The woman made a face. “Given his prices, you’d expect him to show up on time.” She glanced my way, then explained, “We’ve asked an architectural historian to help appraise the building.” The bell rang, right on cue. “That must be him.”
I went to the door, surprised to find a familiar figure standing on the steps. For a minute I just stood there, smiling. What was he doing here?
“It’s not him,” I called over my shoulder.
There stood Mr. Complainer, in worn blue jeans, sneakers, and an old peacoat. He had a knapsack slung across his back, his hair hadn’t been cut in a while, and his beard was thick, giving him the appearance of a sailor who’s come ashore for the first time in months. He seemed happy to see me, but if he was surprised he hid it well. It made me wonder if Rosalie had sent him as a belated April Fool’s joke. “How’d you get here?” I asked.
“Walked.” He made no move to come in, and I saw that he was now wearing a slightly baffled expression. Maybe she hadn’t sent him? Then he said, “You look very different when you’re not wearing an apron. Wait—you are different. You aren’t wearing glasses!”
“I got contact lenses.” Apparently he thought I always dressed like this, and the idea pleased me. To Sammy I was a caterpillar who’d metamorphosed into a butterfly, but to Mr. Complainer this was the way I was out in the real world. He was contemplating me with open admiration, and it made me feel confident, even a little giddy.
Behind me, Joan-Mary called impatiently, “I hear you out there, Mitchell Hammond. Don’t keep us waiting.”
“It’s not your historian,” I repeated, just as Mr. Complainer was saying, “I’ll be right in.”
I jumped. “You?” It came out like an accusation. “That’s what you were teaching in Cambridge?”
He gave an awkward nod and put out his hand. “Mitch Hammond, Architectural History 346. My brilliant powers of deduction tell me that when you’re not playing SuperCheeseGirl you turn into Billie Breslin, girl reporter. I should’ve guessed it, but I’m a bit slow. Wilhelmina: Billie—it all makes sense.”
I took his hand, as uncomfortable as he was. We were both remembering what I’d written about him. But he gave me a solid shake, and I could feel him putting whatever he’d felt about the article behind him. It had been a while.
From inside, Joan-Mary called again, “Mitch!” She sounded more urgent now.
“We’d better go in,” he said. “After you.”
“There you are!” Joan-Mary kissed him once on each cheek, and Chris shook his hand. “Can we please get started? We’ve got a lot to do.” She looked at the staircase. “No elevator?”
Conscious of Mr. Complainer standing behind me, I replied, “No. I’m sorry,” and then wondered why I was apologizing.
“Thank God,” he said.
“But it would make the building more valuable,” Joan-Mary pointed out.
“It would ruin the building,” he said curtly. “Like that Federal mansion you destroyed last year.”
“You can’t blame me. The clients didn’t want to climb stairs.”
Chris pulled out a small leather notebook and wrote something in precise, square handwriting. “If we’re going for a professional sale, they might want to put an elevator in.”
“Please don’t say that!” Mr. Complainer took a turn around the lobby. “It would ruin this room.”
“This argument”—Joan-Mary was staring at the banister—“is premature. Let’s see what we’ve got before we make any drastic decisions. Lovely carving.”
“Right.” The two men followed her up the stairs. As we went from floor to floor, they were extremely businesslike, and Mitch seemed determined to put as much distance as possible between us. I remembered the blonde he’d brought to Fontanari’s and wondered if she’d been with him in Cambridge.
Joan-Mary rattled Sammy’s doorknob, asked about the key, and Chris made a note.
Did the fireplaces work? I told them that I knew Jake’s did but
wasn’t sure about the others. Another note.
“Beautiful proportions,” Joan-Mary said when we walked through the photo studio. “Think what a spectacular dining room this would make!”
When we got to the kitchen, Joan-Mary looked around for a long minute. I couldn’t tell what that meant, and all she said was, “We’ll need to spend some time in here, but there’s no point in wasting yours. Let’s go upstairs.” She headed back to the stairway. “What’s up there?”
“It used to be the art department,” I told her.
She nodded, but when we reached the door to the art department, they each took a small, shocked step backward. I thought they were reacting to the fluorescent lights and scuffed metal furniture until Mitch said, “It’s criminal!” in a voice so angry I knew it was something more. He walked into the center of the room. “They knocked down all the walls! Originally this would have been a series of small rooms. Servants’ quarters.” He pointed toward the library door. “But I can’t figure out what that is. The door could be original, but it doesn’t belong up here.” He eyed me for the first time. “What’s in there?”
“I’ve never been inside.” I hoped my face didn’t look as warm as it felt. “It’s supposed to be the library, but they locked it years before I got here.”
Chris strolled up to the door, tried the handle, then did it again, harder. “Definitely locked.” He made another note. “There’s this door and that one down on the second floor.” He and Joan-Mary both looked expectantly at Mitch, who pointedly turned away.
“Aren’t we going to get the lecture?” she asked.
He reddened a bit and shook his head.
Joan-Mary glanced at me. “He’s blushing because he knows that ordinarily we’d simply call a locksmith. But Mitch goes ballistic if you let anyone else touch ‘his’ buildings.”
“Go ahead,” he said. “It’s perfectly fine with me if you want to let some clumsy oaf come in and destroy all the details. Why would you want to know anything about the history of this building? It’s just unimportant little trifles like when the locks were put in, when repairs were made, who was living here, what their lives were like. Why would you want to know any of that?”
“You can tell those things from the locks?” I was intrigued.
Mitch leaned back against the wall. “If you know what you’re looking for. Nails, locks, scratches, repairs—they’re kind of like fingerprints.”
“You make it sound like a crime scene.”
“Not a crime scene: an opportunity.” He turned to Joan-Mary. “These things tell you the story of a building. Why would you risk destroying that?”
“So we are going to get the lecture.” She regarded him almost coyly.
Mitch raised his hands and took a step forward. “No lecture. But what exactly is your problem with letting me unlock those doors?”
Another coy look. And that whispery voice. “You know you charge twice what any ordinary locksmith does.”
“You get what you pay for.”
“I wonder if I’m glad you came back early from—where were you?” Joan-Mary gave him a sidelong glance.
She was obviously enjoying this, and I was reminded of the call-and-response routine Mr. Complainer did with Sal. Was Mitch like this with everyone? He seemed intent on wringing every bit of juice from ordinary life.
“Cambridge.”
“I’m afraid that your colleague’s early return from his sabbatical is going to turn out to be rather expensive for me.”
“But so much more interesting. Besides, you’re not the one who’s paying.”
She nodded. “Okay, you go prowl around and do whatever it is that you do. Chris and I have to go down to the basement and see what we’ve got in the way of infrastructure.”
“I’ll come back tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.” Mitch made his way to the staircase. “I didn’t bring my tools. And I want to do a little research before I begin.”
Watching him leave, I had mixed feelings. I got the sense that he found it as uncomfortable as I did, seeing me outside of Fontanari’s, and that he was making his escape. But I was relieved too: What if he’d opened Sammy’s office on the spot? I’d been racking my brain, trying to think up plausible stories, and now we’d been given a reprieve. Sammy and I could come back tonight and clear it out.
“I hope he doesn’t find anything too interesting.” Joan-Mary seemed to be talking to herself.
“What do you mean?” I was curious.
“If he discovers that someone famous once owned this house, or if it was the site of some important battle, it could become a nuisance.”
“Unlikely,” said Chris. “We’d know.”
“I hope you’re right.” Joan-Mary turned back to me. “We’ll probably be here for a while, assessing the state of the furnace and the electrical capacity of the building. Please don’t allow us to waste any more of your time.”
For the next couple of hours I heard them moving around the building, and occasionally I’d hear a scrap of a sentence. It sounded as if they despaired of the heating and electrical equipment, and they were very concerned about how they were going to replace the cracked panes in the antique windows.
They were arguing as they approached my door. He thought it should be sold for professional use, while she insisted that they should try to sell it to the ambassador of some wealthy nation.
“It’s such a lovely home,” she kept saying.
“Joan-Mary,” he replied, “beneath the gruff exterior of a businesswoman beats the heart of a romantic.” She laughed; it was a lovely, musical sound, and when they came through the door her cheeks were flushed.
“Do you think the building will sell?” I asked.
Joan-Mary looked at me, her mouth slightly open. “Are you serious? How often do you think an intact Federal mansion comes on the market in the heart of Manhattan? There are Federal row houses, but true mansions are extremely rare. The few that exist have been carved into apartments, or tragically renovated. This one could certainly use an upgrade, but it’s been remarkably preserved. It will definitely sell.”
“Quickly?” I pressed.
“That,” Chris answered, “will depend on many factors. Not the least being price.”
“But for the moment,” Joan-Mary was speaking again, “as soon as Mitch finishes whatever it is that he’s going to do, I’m going to recommend that Mr. Pickwick have the building staged. I’m sorry to say you’ll find it rather disruptive.”
Chris made a little face at Joan-Mary, as if he was conceding a point. “If we want people to consider it as a home, I suppose we’ll need to encourage them to recognize the possibilities.”
Joan-Mary was pulling on her gloves. “Anyone with eyes,” she said, “could see that this building was made for memories.” She gave a little wave. “Thanks. We’ll be seeing you soon.”
I HAD COME TO LOVE the Timbers Mansion, and I liked Joan-Mary for liking it too. It made me happy to think of the old building getting spruced up and turned back into a home. Maybe some child would find the secret room. What had Joan-Mary said? That it was “made for memories.” The words resonated, and I suddenly thought of Lulu’s last letter. “We still have his memory,” Mrs. Cappuzzelli had said. On a mad impulse, I ran up to the library and looked up the word.
Bertie must have known how difficult this clue was. She didn’t beat about the bush. There were only six words on the card, written out in her bold turquoise handwriting. “Memories. See reader letters, 1944, the ‘Farming’ file.”
AUGUST 21, 1944
Dear Mr. Beard,
Why didn’t you tell me how tiring farm work was? I had no idea. At night I’m so fatigued I don’t even have the energy to make dinner, and Mother’s taken over the cooking. I’m sorry to say that her heart isn’t in it; she’s grown very fond of frozen baked beans. She says they must be good for us, and since they aren’t rationed we can have as much as we want. But who wants the horrid things? Besides, most nights I’m t
oo worn out to eat.
My favorite chore is milking. It frightened me at first, but now I find it comforting. I like to lay my head on the cow’s furry flank. And I like that little nudge they give at the end, like they’re grateful to be relieved of the burden.
My least favorite job is the raspberries; they’re nasty things that scratch your arms. The bees fight you for them too, so I was happy yesterday when we finished and moved into the corn. Farmer Loudon thinks girls make the best detasselers. It’s very dirty work, but at least you don’t have to stoop. We walk up and down the rows in teams, talking while we take the tassels off the stalks.
I’ve learned so much this summer. But what I have mostly learned is that I don’t want to be a farmer. From now on, a garden is quite enough, thank you very much. Mother says that is a relief; she doesn’t want a farmer for a daughter.
I must go. The bus comes at six A.M., and right now that seems only minutes away.
Your friend,
Lulu
Vintage Cookbooks
“DETASSELING?” SAMMY WAS SURROUNDED BY THE BILLOWS OF steam rising from the wok in front of him, but even so I could tell how pleased he was that his intuition had been right: It had been a lucky day. “Have you the foggiest notion what that might be?” Emerging from the clouds, he pointed a metal spatula at me. “Do be careful with that letter. It has no business in the kitchen.”
According to Wikipedia, detasseling is a way to cross-breed two varieties of corn by removing the pollen-producing flowers from the tops of the corn plants. “Apparently,” I said, carefully folding the letter and putting it back into its envelope, “during the war, the corn farmers all hoped for rural helpers, because they knew how to do it.”
“It sounds positively medieval.” He motioned for me to pick up the white ironstone platter on the counter, and I held it as he piled on the rosy steamed shrimp. The thoroughly urban Sammy wore a look of distaste. “No doubt detasseling tasks are now performed by machines.” He waved me toward the dining room. “Make haste; the shrimp grow cold.”